


Catra, awakened.

by Birdy5678



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: Body Horror, Characters are not written properly, F/F, High Strangeness, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Psychological Horror, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 17:09:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17410904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Birdy5678/pseuds/Birdy5678
Summary: "I'm awake, I guess."Catra wakes up in a hospital.





	Catra, awakened.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, hello there! I've been dead for a couple months, so sorry about that! Please forgive me if Catra doesn't sound like herself, I promise that there is an explanation!

Catra wakes up in a hospital 

I’m awake, I guess, staring up at the porcelain ceiling, at the white florescent light that streams itself onto me, without permission though it’s not like I’ve got much a choice here. I’m tired. My body aches, screams at me to stay awake, searing itself upon my skin, on my marks, on my everything.  
I’m awake.  
Not like that means anything.  
I sit up, the fabric rustling beneath my form as I tense in pain, gritting my teeth, I try to find the source of all that pain, all that anger.  
It’s covered in white,  
White like the porcelain,  
White, linen. 

I’m awake, I groan, don’t wanna be. 

\--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- -- - - - - - - - - -  
The memories slink back into me like the drips of water from a shower.  
Small, fragments.  
A face here, a mouth there.  
Eyes. So many eyes.  
\--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- -- -- -- - - - - - - - -  
My hair is a mess, my eyes sharp, my claws sharper beneath the white wraps, my skin caramel. When I can walk, I walk.  
I pace the rooms, eyes sharp and alert as I circle the room, flexing my muscles when I can. Gritting my teeth, trying to ignore it.  
\--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- - - - - - - - - -- -- --- - - --  
There’re four corners in this wall, four dark spaces where the darkness hangs, dripping and dropping, pooling amongst itself, staring at me through four corridors, four openings within an empty abyss.  
I’ve circled this room for hours at this point, studying all the bits and pieces that make up my jail room, all the scratches, the reflections of light against porcelain.  
I’m tired, my senses sharp and I dunno, angry, I guess?  
You see, I can’t seem to remember much, but I remember eyes, blue; blue like the ocean, the waves with something deep and dark underneath it all. I loved those eyes, the way they creased when they laughed, wrinkled when they grew furious. I can’t remember who those eyes belonged to.  
There are four corners.  
One-hundred-and-seventy-eight scratches on the first one.  
Ninety on the second.  
One-hundred-and-twenty on the third.  
And six on the fourth. 

The fourth seems lonely, I hate that its lonely. 

My arms scream into my ear, telling me that it’s time to sit down, to breathe. 

Someone opens my door.  
His scrubs, once a pristine white, now yellowed with the strands of time.  
“Good evening, Cat, there’s lunch in the cafeteria, would you like to come and get it?”  
I nod, I feel the need to rip out his throat, though I don’t take it.  
\--- --- --- --- --- --- --- -- - - - - - ---- - - - - ---- -- - -- - - -- - - -- - - - -- - -- -- - -  
My eyes hurt.  
My bandages hurt. 

We walk to the cafeteria, and I don’t question anything, the decrepit cleanliness of this place, the

Twists 

Then turns.  
\--- - ---- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- -- - - -- - - - - - - - -- -- - - - - - - ---- - -

There’re others in here with me, other people, other faces, other mouths and other eyes. Different colors all of them, none of them blue. The closest one to me, sitting on the metal table with me as we shovel food into our mouths- Entrapta, I think that’s what she said- is the first to open her mouth.  
Her hair’s like purple wave, as though having a mind of their own. Though they never interrupted her, never got in her way, she never had to blow it out of her face; it was like they knew their place in this world, and they stuck to it like moths to a flame. It was like she could control it.  
“What’re you in here for?”  
Her voice, nasally- almost nastily so- erupts throughout the cafeteria.  
I don’t know what to say, how to respond.  
Though, I can feel something, small beats of a time long gone.  
I feel it, feel it clinking together.  
Then it’s gone, out of my bandaged hands, gone, gone, gone.  
Fuck.  
“Uh, can’t remember.” I growl.  
She doesn’t look surprised, which surprises me, the bandages wrapped around her neck bobs with excitement.  
“No one can!  
\--- --- -- -- -- --- --- --- --- ---- --- --- --- --- -- - - - - - - - -- ---- ----- ------

I’m in my room again. White walls. Music rings throughout the empty caverns as I stare into the sky, well, there’s no sky- just a white fucking ceiling.

Eyes ring in the corners of my mind. 

Where am I?  
\--- --- ---- ---- ---- --- -- - -- - -- - ---- --- --- --- ---- ---- ---- -----

The music is… sad, I guess, strings, like, thousands of them combining into an orchestra; beatings onto damaged drums, it’s an orchestra sure- but it’s a bad one, a dying one, failing at its one job.  
The strings hitch and sputter, clawing at the light at the end of the four corridors. The beating- tired and raw- quell their anger, falling short with each beat against a well with one-hundred-and-seventy-eight walls. 

The orchestra falters, and soon enough dies.  
I press my ears against the walls.  
\--- --- --- --- --- -- -- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---- - --- - -- -- --- -- -- --- - - - - - -- - - - -- - - - 

A girl exists within the confines of a wall with four corners, just like mine; everyone calls her Scorpia, though I doubt that’s her real name, she’s there to lend a helping hand, her smile wide and loving. Everyone loves her.  
Unlike the rest of us, she actually cares, she listens to us cry as we scream about our problems, hold our hair back as we empty our bowels, softly whispering sweet nothings as her fingers slip slowly.  
She smiles, though her scars do not, thousands of them litter her form, small, large, jagged things that streak up and down her form, crisscrossing like subways. She’s here for a reason, a reason we all have, and they love her more for that.

She came up to me once, told me everything was going to be okay, and she smiled, a real, genuinely happy smile. It was like she tore a piece of the sun for me, just me, the world brightened in that moment and I was sickened. 

I still keep that piece, I hold it close to me as it illuminates my bandages. 

Sometimes I want those fingers slipping slowly, those sweet nothingness’s. 

But her eyes aren’t blue.  
\--- --- --- ---- -- - -- --- --- --- --- -- -- --- --- --- --- -- -- -- -- - -- - - - - - - - - - - - -- - - 

When the clock strikes four, we all huddle up and share. She sits in the middle. Always tip-toeing around the subjects we talk about. Like a minefield, steps taken lightly, carefully traversing thousands of possible missteps, analyzing every word that exits her mouth.

“What compels you to do things you do?”

“Do you tell yourself anything when it happens?”

Never full answers, never an explanation. 

Then, we cry, scream of throats hoarse, cry our eyes out; crawl into the depths of places we thought we’d long since covered, hidden, out of sight and out of mind. The circle becomes a river, and the river becomes an ocean. And we are left alone. 

Though not me, never me. 

The girls before me talks about being hurt, kicked and beaten and stabbed and how this only made her want to die more. 

“Would you like to talk about your stay here, Catra?” Her voice like butter, her eyes dreamy and calm; like a beach on a sunset. 

I sit, my eyes annoyed and sharp, claws sharper. I’m afraid.  
\--- --- --- --- -- -- -- - -- --- --- --- -- --- --- --- --- -- -- --- -- -- -- -- -- --- -- - - - - - - - - - 

I lay down, I stare at the ceiling above me, examining each crack and clasp and I’m imagining of a way outta here. There’s gotta be one. Somewhere within these dazed hallways and screaming orchestras of broken strings. I sit up, flexing my muscles as I pace back and forth. The cloth hangs above, staring down at me from a bed that rises above the clouds. 

I pace and pace and there is no way out. 

I am lost. 

The walls tower above me. 

Surrounding me. 

My scars bleed.

I die.  
\--- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- --- --- ---- -- --- - -- - -- - - - -- - - -- 

I’m awake, I guess.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments, criticisms, just wanna tell me I should commit death.exe? Please send a message in the comments!


End file.
